


The Art of Subconscious Illusion

by Ruin_Takada



Category: Death Note, House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe, Americans, Arrest, Assault, Attempted Murder, Attempted Rape, Bad Jokes, Bad Parenting, Bargaining, Blood, Civics, Crossover, Depression, Diagnosis, Earwax, Escapology, Good Cop Bad Cop, Gore, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Hospitals, Inspired by Music, Japanese, Japanese Character(s), Knifeplay, Male Homosexuality, Medication, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Murder, Mutilation, Nurses, Original Character(s), POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Patient of the Week, Police, Psychic Violence, Psychology, Psychosis, Rape/Non-con References, References to Suicide, Romaji, Sarcasm, Seizure, Strait Jacket, Strangulation, Suicide Attempt, Theft, Violence, Vomiting, cheeking, morgue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:05:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruin_Takada/pseuds/Ruin_Takada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a nutshell, this portrays the story of the fight between House the diagnostician and the mental patient who calls himself Kira. One week is all that is allotted for him and his team to save Kira from the world and himself…and House's neck is on the line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tension

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note, nor do I own House, MD. I do not own music by Avenged Sevenfold, nor the band themselves. I own this plot and this writing, and a few characters, but they are my own, and you will know them when you see them. Finally, I do not make money from this story, but my web-provider does.

Chapter I  
Tension

Mid-April 2006

The fluorescent lights overhead shone brightly in the 3rd year classroom, blinking at intervals. The students at their desks were in complete silence, but for the rare cough from a classmate sitting in the third row, the sound echoing around the room in time to the shuddered bobbing of her dyed-blonde head. The sound was harsh and sudden, causing her classmates to wince with each cough. Even the visiting teacher standing at the front – known to all as the ‘Invigilator’ – felt the tension emanating off the student, following their lead. 

Passing a glance to his watch, the Invigilator signalled to the Civics teacher, who proceeded to hand out exam papers to the students, going column by column. “When you all have an exam paper,” said the Invigilator, surveying the room with a practiced glare, scrutinising the students one by one, “write your name, candidate number, and centre number in the appropriate spaces provided. When you’ve filled in the cover, wait for my signal. Remember: Read the questions carefully before answering, and make sure your handwriting is legible. This is just a practice paper, but you should all know the drill by now!”

The second hand on the clock upon the wall ticked closer to the hour, the sound of a pencil tap joining the blinking lights. The blonde-haired girl in the third row coughed again as everyone around her scribbled, her throat feeling more itchy and sore with every splutter. “You will be expected to finish this exam within the two hour time limit. You’re missing gym class for this, so I expect complete silence.” He glared at the blonde pointedly, and she was stifled. 

“Right,” he smiled – or was that a sneer? – “Your exam starts… now!” Simultaneously, everyone picked up their pens, turned over the cover and began scribbling furiously. Already, it was clear that very lives were at stake if any one of them achieved a below-average score, that they would end at the hands of the Invigilator himself. 

An hour into the exam and the blonde was still coughing loudly, putting her pen down every few minutes to lift her hand to her face and cough. Yet, the sound still echoed around the classroom, becoming harsher and harsher, the lights blinking faster and faster, and the nervous pencil tap against a wooden desk only adding to the rising tumult. Finally, she stopped, her throat newly lubricated. She lifted her hand away to show crimson staining the palm. A shot of terror stabbing through her spine, she put her bloody hand up, only to find that someone else had caught the Invigilator’s attention: One of her classmates, a tall brown haired boy, was walking to the front, exam paper in hand, his left hand twitching just slightly. 

The Invigilator walked the few steps towards him, placing a hand gently on his left arm. The boy flinched, the undue affection too painful to bear, “What are you doing?” The Invigilator asked, muttering quietly, aiming not to disturb the others, “You still have an hour to finish the exam, yet.”

“No,” the boy replied, “I’ve finished.” The hand twitched again, this time the spasm running full through the arm. The Invigilator noticed, and tightened his grip on his shoulder.

“Are you all right? Is anything wrong?”

The boy’s hand flexed at this, and he gave a smile, like the devil. “No,” he answered, his voice almost a whisper, “there’s nothing wrong with me…” Suddenly, one quick movement, barely a blink, the Invigilator was pinned against the blackboard, the boy holding him by the collar. The Civics teacher dropped to the ground in horror, and the students looked up from their papers in unison, unable to believe the sight. The students on the first few rows stood up, loathing the idea of being too close. 

“But there is something wrong with you.” sneered the boy. The voice was hushed, yet carried through the room with ease. “Every crime you have committed… Every person you have hurt… Every lie you have uttered to save your own worthless skin…” The Satanic smile creaked through his mouth, his white teeth almost bared. His eyes seemed to glow red in the sporadic lights, dim but threatening, and his fists began to shake. No, really began to shake. The Invigilator couldn’t speak; too caught up in a state of shock, he could only widen his eyes yet more for the transformation. 

“Do not worry,” he mocked, relishing in the man’s fear, finding joy in his terror, “your end shall be swift – your guilt and what conscience you have will have tortured you enough…” One hand left his collar; the Invigilator almost broke out a sigh of relief – not for long, for it snapped into place at his throat. “However, the soul of that poor boy calls out for at least some degree of pain!” The lights flickered quicker and quicker, struggling like the students to do anything else, their mouths open like koi carp at the blooming madness. 

The hand clenched tighter, crushing hard, and the man gasped out in suffocation. He grasped at the boy’s wrist, made to pull it away, but his captor just clenched tighter, and he was floundering once more. His movements were slowing though, becoming sluggish. Time slowed with him. 

“This world is rotting…” The boy whispered, his head lowered, spoken like a prayer to God. “And you cannot be a part of the revolution.” The Invigilator gasped. His heart stopped. This… this student was going to… he was going to… No grown man had ever dared to do this, so how could a mere boy…? No… he could, and he would. He would enjoy it, take pleasure in the act.

That boy was the Devil himself. 

Time came back full force. The lights flickered so strongly, blindingly fast, truly strobing. Close to breaking point. The grip relaxed, and, able to breathe again, the Invigilator looked up into the face of his would-be killer. The boy’s eyes widened, no longer seeing. His mouth went slack. With barely a word, he collapsed to the floor, his body convulsing sickeningly. Female classmates screamed, covering their eyes. The Civics teacher picked herself off the floor to attempt emergency procedures, picking up and dropping her cell phone to the floor, hands shaking. His friends, his classmates all called out to him, yelling at him, begging him to snap out of it – but, fitting, nigh on screaming himself, the boy couldn’t respond to them even if he tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This 'new' story has been around for two or three years now. This is the definitive version. No more changes, no more rewrites. All the chapter titles are songs from metal band Avenged Sevenfold, chosen by me. I don't rate this song very much. Tell me what you think? Enjoy.
> 
> Thanks,  
> Ruin Takada XXX


	2. An Epic Of Time Wasted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note, nor do I own House, MD. I do not own music by Avenged Sevenfold, nor the band themselves. I own this plot and this writing, and a few characters, but they are my own, and you will know them when you see them. Finally, I do not make money from this story, but my web-provider does. 
> 
> Dedication(?): To MadForBeyond, for reminding me of the beauty of Jason Voorhees. Also, to the wonderful world of video games on various platforms. You’ll know what I mean.

Chapter II  
An Epic of Time Wasted

September 7th 2006

Making her usual morning rounds of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, it was 8AM when Dr Lisa Cuddy walked into the office of Dr Gregory House, the brilliant rays of the New Jersey sunrise falling through the glass windows, giving her white open-top blouse a gorgeous covering of honey. The miserable coot was lazing about on his swivel chair with his feet on the desk, his casual clothing re-worn from yesterday and creasing further as he played a Nintendo DS game in an animated manner. From the sound of the blasts, she guessed it was one of those glorified arcade throwbacks from the 80s. In reality, she didn’t even need to guess, because she wasn’t the least bit surprised in any case. 

So far, he hadn’t noticed the intrusion, and so she decided against the usual announcement of her presence and paced the room silently to the desk, picking up papers and case files at random, finding his cane hung on one end of the table top. Every now and again, she’d skim-read them, then put them back on the desk in newly-made piles, thinking of the look on the miserable coot’s face when she’d remind him about the paperwork deadline later, and he wouldn’t be able to find anything he needed. As the Dean of Medicine, and therefore House’s pay-check-signer, and therefore boss, it was her job to keep him ‘on his cane’, as it were. 

“Well, well, well,” House smirked, the console chirping with an anticipating sort of noise, “If it isn’t my arch-nemesis…” Cuddy’s head snapped up, ready to retort, but he cut across her. “…Dr Wily!”

Her mouth was still open when he began mashing buttons again, and that was how it stayed for a whole minute, her arms akimbo. She sighed. “This must be a new low for you – 8 in the morning and you’re already ‘baked’” She marked the term with air quotes. “I’m Dr Cuddy, remember?”

That was when House actually looked up, still smirking as he put the DS on the desk. “Oh, you’re here. Actually, I did mean Dr Wily – you’re not my arch-nemesis more than my personal entertainer, especially with that blouse.” Cuddy looked down, then looked back up at him, aghast – but not really. The shock value had long since dried up. 

“Speaking of entertainment,” the Dean said, spearing the doctor with her eyes by will alone, “here’s the line-up: Dr Gregory House to perform in Examination Room 1, starting half-an-hour ago!”

“Oh, come on!” House retorted, practically whined, “it’s early September – all we’ll have are senseless school kids getting cooties from the other kids, accompanied by their even more senseless parents; and they’ll still be here tomorrow telling me how to do my job. They don’t even need me to get better.”

“And how many times have you gone down and actually found someone seriously needing you to get better?” That stopped the man in his tracks – he put his hand to his face, stroking his chin as though actually counting the occasions. 

“Hmm,” he began, “fifty bucks says you can’t guess the number, sweet cheeks. You game?”

“Ugh! I’ve no time for this!” She’d practically growled at him. “With the clinic’s new early hours, and puke in the waiting room, we need everyone on deck, and all you can think about is Mega Man!” 

House looked almost stunned this time. Surely it didn’t take such a little poke to tip her over the edge? “I was willing to wait for you to get off your ass and get down there, but if you can’t keep your mind on medicine, you can crawl!” To prove her point, she picked the cane from its hanging position on the desk, holding it away as House made to stand. 

“Crawl? Won’t people die if I do? Or doesn’t that matter as long as you’ve got a hold of some poor shmuck by the staff?”

“Fine, give me three good reasons why I should give it back… and take you off clinic hours!”

“Fine,” he repeated, “Everybody lies, so I’ll be wasting my time with chit chat like usual and I’ve gotta be at the battle stations ready for the next big bad case of the week – I can’t let some poor dear be left in the incapable hands of someone like Dr Gilmore, who can’t tell his kidneys from his gall stones on a good day when they’re, I don’t know... dying of Lupus or something.”

“House,” Cuddy sighed, “it’s never Lupus.”

“Well,” he shrugged, “you never know. Today might just be my lucky day. It’d be even luckier if I could win my bet with Wilson: If I complete my game by ten o’clock today, I get one hundred smackers and unlimited prescriptions until 2007.” 

Cuddy just shuck her head, “And I thought the point of being a doctor was getting to write your own prescriptions.”

“Try telling that to the fellas down in Pharmaceuticals – they keep coming up with empties. Do you think they’re on to me?” He whispered conspiratorially. 

“If they aren’t on to you by now they never will be, and they’re not: I told them to. You really need to cut your daily doses before you’re too stone-baked to do your job, and I thought I could get the Pharmacy in on it. Go to the clinic, House: Some dumb bet with Wilson is no reason not to treat people.” Sighing again, she handed him the cane and made for the door, beckoning the doctor to follow. “Finish your game on your own time and tell him you thought he meant 10PM, and get one of your lackeys to back it up for you.”

“Which one?” 

She gave a look of disbelief, then sighed again. “Cameron. She’s so honest she could convince me I have four children, and that you’re one of them.”

House couldn’t argue with that. Or rather, he didn’t want to – it was too early in the morning for that much effort, and Mega Man had taken most of the coffee-induced energy already. Sighing, he held his hand out for his cane, and Cuddy gave it back. 

Pocketing his DS, he led the way limping out of his office, Cuddy falling in step beside him once out the door. “You know, House,” Cuddy said, allowing a smile to creep onto her face, “This has to be the first time I’ve seen you speechless. I think I’d like to see that more often.”

They made their way to the lift, which opened for them on cue. Once upon a time, it might have caused amazement at the clockwork performance of this feat for House and House alone, but now, it was just supposed that ‘the lift knows better’. When the doors opened, it was already half-full, occupied by a doctor, two surgeons in scrubs, and a visiting couple – the girl, East Asian and dark-haired, had her arms linked with the black-haired young man, a pink Nike cap pulled on his head and over his face in a manner that must have been in jest. Overall, not at all remarkable in such a setting as this. 

“Yeah,” House replied, as he and his boss boarded the lift, “and I’d like to see your ass more often, but that isn’t likely to happen in the future, now is it?” Cuddy just responded with a dumbfounded look, as did the rest of the lift-travellers as the lift door shifted shut in front of them. “Sure, blame me!” the diagnostician said, sounding suitably scandalised. He turned to the pink-capped man behind him, squinting his eyes. “But you saw the way they were looking at me!” 

When the lift doors opened again, it was for the walk-in clinic, the whole lift seeming to resume breathing as the cripple and the Dean stepped off for their destination. No one else stepped off, too relieved to do anything as the lift doors closed again, and the cage lazily surrendered to gravity and its 21st century pulley system to the next floor below. As House made to go through the official clinic entrance, Cuddy stopped outside it, grabbing House’s arm to make him stay put. “Before I forget, House, you’ve got a date with the local detective in about two hours or so, so go have your lunch break early to sort that out. Apparently – and don’t quote me on this – it’s something to do with a missing shipment of pain-relief medication, an opiate of some sort...” 

House rolled his eyes. “I get it, Miss Boss Lady: Do my clinic hours, cut my dosage.” 

Cuddy nodded. “That’s right. Now, go get ‘em, tiger!” She made a hammed up motion to spank him, but he dodged it easily with a forward hip motion, and he limped off into the clinic, waving idly at her behind his back. The waiting room that greeted him was packed up to the near brim – apparently, vomit on the floor was not even half of the problem that morning. 

Stopping at the desk, and looking through the small pile of clipboards on his in-pile, he made his grand entrance. 

“Good morning-” At that moment, a cough chose that time to erupt from his end of the room, drowning out his introduction. As it spluttered on and on, House took a glance at his wrist watch. About two minutes later, and the culprit had been spotted, a teenage girl that House wasted no time in glaring at, before moving grandly on. 

“I am Dr Gregory House,” he continued, “and I’ll be in Examination Room 1 today. If you are on my hit list here,” he waved his clipboard, “then you’ll come forward and I’ll deal with you accordingly. If you’re not, then why are you even here? It’s not like your sick friend even likes you.

“Meanwhile… my house, my rules: If you sneeze or puke on me, I’ll rip your face off; if you bring in any food or drink, you either don’t spill or dispose; any alcohol, and you’ve officially gifted it to me. All know-it-all relatives who’d rather spout differential diagnoses courtesy of Dr Wikipedia before listening to me should be left at the door… here.” With a smack of his cane, he hit the floor a clear six feet before the entrance to Examination Room 1, making several people jump. The blonde teenager coughed again. 

“Anyone thinking I’ll be playing games today is most obviously high. If you’ve any narcotics, you can dispose of them into my pocket.” Giving something of a staged sigh as he leaned against the desk, he took a look at his clipboard, then at the crowd of trespassers, then back at the clipboard again. 

“Well, it looks like the House party has officially begun, if the first poor shmuck will come this way…” Gesturing in the general direction of his Examination Room, he turned to look over his shoulder, where Dr Cuddy was still standing just outside the confines of the Clinic, a look of mild outrage lightening her features, her hands out and almost begging for an explanation. Permissing just a tiny smirk on his face in her direction, there was a wink, and then the back of his head again as he limped off into the Examination Room. 

It was the perfect place for awaiting his first victim of the morning. 

\---

Half an hour into the shift, and it was the blonde teenager’s turn to take the walk into the Examination Room. Dressed head-to-toe in the latest high street fashions, she was attractive up close, but both physically and actually too young for him to be interested. Not only was she a little too under-developed to properly compete with the standard that Cuddy had long ago set, but she clenched a packet of potato chips and a clipboard in one hand and a bloody Kleenex in the other. Unfortunately, all of those were negatively affecting her chances with him. Sitting down on the examination table, she coughed loudly into the tissue, a significant amount of blood staining it immediately. 

“So you see,” she wheezed, handing House her clipboard, “I’m just coughing up blood all the time! My legs have been feeling really sore lately too, and I’ve been losing, like, a ton of weight.” Her tissue remained at her mouth through the whole speech, and House for once was glad that American teenagers were inherently loud. “I told my Mom, and she thinks I’ve got T.B or something. It’s not T-” suddenly, she collapsed into a fit of coughing, holding her side and letting her potato chips fall onto the table. That went on for about three minutes before she stopped. “…B is it?” she finally finished. 

House merely leafed through the sheets attached to the clipboard before sighing loudly, “According to your medical history here,” he said, “you’re American, middle-class, and do you know what all middle-class Americans have in common?”

The girl shook her head slowly. When it was painfully clear that she didn’t know the answer, House supplied it for her. “T.B shots – everyone’s had them. Since you’ve no history of cancer on the ol’ clipboard, I’m just gonna take a look in there and see what middle-class Americans don’t have in common.” Standing up, the diagnostician took out a pair of latex gloves from a dispenser on the wall, snapped them on, and picked up what looked to be a Popsicle stick. He took the bloody tissue out of the girl’s hand, throwing it deftly into the trash can in the corner. A momentary, celebratory air-punch was allowed. “Now, open your mouth and say ‘ah’.” 

Suddenly, the door swung open with a clatter. Dr Wilson rushed in, closing the door behind him and leaning against it, wheezing, out of breath, unable to speak momentarily. His lab coat was creased and spotted with blood. Even House had to admit that this sight was unusual, seeing as how Dr Wilson’s patients preferred to keep their blood to themselves (or rather, they couldn’t afford not to). 

“What is it this time?” House asked, sighing, turning to face the oncologist.

“I… uh… it’s…” 

“Don’t tell me you lost another wife…” House shook his head tutting, and turned to the teenager, muttering, “He’s always doing that. Seriously,” back to the oncologist, “you should put a bell on that thing, maybe give her some cake every once in a while-”

“What are you…talking…?” Wilson began. He was still out of breath – apparently, years spent either behind a desk or at bedsides comforting cancer kids had not been very kind to him in the department of physical fitness. House would have been worried about the paunch his lunch buddy was developing, but as it gave him a significant advantage over Wilson in terms of possible emergency situations in which escape from psychos and/or flesh-eaters was paramount, and he was proud of his lack of responsibility for him (moral or otherwise), he never saw the point in mentioning it straight away. 

Maybe in a different context? When he can strip him of just a little bit more of his confidence at the same time? Yeah, that sounded like a date. 

“Wait, there’s cake?” The blonde teen asked. 

“No,” House said. “There was never any cake.”

“So, wait…” she paused to think, sadly, “You lied to me…?” 

House would have said something, but the early morning start and the blood spots on Wilson’s lab coat told him to just give an exasperated sigh, let it go and perhaps focus on the real issue at hand. Turning decidedly to Wilson alone, he raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner.

“There’s a major incident going on at check-in.” Wilson finally said. 

“Major?” House asked. “Are we talking ‘World-Trade-Centre’ major, or… ‘Jerry-Springer’ major?’

Wilson shook his head. “Neither. ‘Jason-Voorhees’ major – but he can talk.” 

House gave a low whistle. “Wow. That is major. What do you want me to do about it?”

Wilson looked floored. To his credit, he’d put up with way too much over the years, but this, after a long sprint and the recent memory of who-knows-what, was taking the biscuit right now. “What do I want you…?” He just paused out of severe frustration. “There’s a homicidal mental patient on the loose back there! Five bystanders are injured and an ex-convict on life-support has been plugged out! We need all the help we can get for this one, and all I was thinking at the time between ‘Why God, why!’ and ‘Keep him away from Oncology!’ was ‘Hey! I bet my crazy best friend can match him – and he’s armed too!’ Can you blame me?!” 

House, to his credit, had seen way too many cases and battled way too many pathogens to be particularly impressed – mental illness was potentially diagnostically boring and not his field of expertise by any stretch of the imagination. Wilson should have kept that in mind when all House replied with was, “That explains the Jason Voorhees metaphor. I take it he’s not armed this time around?”

“Of course not, this is a hospital! He’s bare-handed, but he definitely knows what he’s doing!” 

“Knows what he’s doing…? So isn’t ‘mental patient’ a bit of a stretch if he knows what he’s doing? Any psychosis?”

“Apart from a mad look in his eye and a murderous intent, you mean? He’s yelling something about ‘Kira’ and ‘sins’ and when I left, he’d just announced every skeleton in Dr Freeman’s closet, everything from backdoor-dealings to steamy affairs, none of which he could’ve known before-” Suddenly, House raised a hand to silence the oncologist. 

“Did you say ‘Kira’?” House asked, his head tilted to the side, an eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, but what does that have to do with it?”

“What’s that got to…” House shuck his head. “This is Kira we’re talking about, not Jason! A serial killer who took criminals out en masse on an international level! Once upon a time, he was making my job easier by doing for a hobby what I’ve been doing all my life – within reason, of course – and you’re asking me why I’m not concerned?”

“No, I’m asking you why it’s relevant. I knew you’d be at least a little concerned, what with how all over the Kira case you were last year.” Wilson had to roll his eyes at this point, remembering the memory with some distain – House really was ‘all over it’, talking about the case non-stop when he didn’t have a case of his own to solve.

House shrugged. “He was killing with heart attacks – it was and still is a medical and logical impossibility. Of course I’d be all over it.” Almost absent-mindedly, he picked the packet of potato chips off the examination table, and began silently wrestling the bag open. “You didn’t say the psycho was killing with heart attacks now, but he’s still making a big show of the Kira meme? Just sign me up and my team will be in his room faster that you can say ‘Friday the 13th’.”

That was the part where Wilson just wanted to sob out of frustration. “I can’t.” he said.

The packet burst open, chips flying free to the floor. “What?”

“He doesn’t have a room. He only got here fifteen minutes ago from another hospital, and then he went mad – has been for a good five minutes now – and half your team’s already charged in like the Light Brigade. Chase and Foreman, specifically.” 

“What?!” The blonde jumped at the diagnostician’s outburst, letting out a high-pitched squeal of terror. “Have you completely lost your mind? If he’s been transferred in, how come he’s not been assigned a room? Surely that detail would have been sorted out! And what about sedating the maniac? Has nobody heard of simple, cost-effective sedatives these days?!”

“Dora must have been on duty then!”

“And no one thought to cover her ass as usual and actually put him somewhere? The psycho will be taking out the Pharmacy soon, and then no one will have their sedatives! Dammit Wilson, just go on ahead!” Wilson shot mutely off at that, but not quite at break-neck speed. Finally, Housed was alone with the blonde girl once more, and she was feeling quite forgotten. 

“What about me?” She asked. Surely this curmudgeon wasn’t going to leave her here without actually treating her, right? 

“Oh, you’re still here?” He asked, turning to face her. “Congratulations, Pookie-Doll, you don’t have T.B.” 

“Pookie-Doll?” She choked out.

“No, you just have a small incision at the back of your mouth from all those tasty potato chips of yours.” He held the packet up and rustled it slightly, the top held firmly closed. Holding them up further, he checked out the front of the packaging. “Mmm, consommé flavour.”

“Is there… is there anything I should do?”

“Oh, I think not. Just get your five a day, eat a proper meal, and get your maid to give you some cake and ice cream as an extra special treat. Maybe then your legs won’t feel so sore, and maybe your chest won’t be so flat either.”

“But…” the poor girl looked scandalised, and she crossed her arms directly over her chest in defence. “I’m a cheerleader! I’m supposed to be light if my team are gonna throw me!”

“Well, that’s just wonderful if all they’re gonna do is throw you up and down like a beach ball, but cheerleaders are apparently athletes, and athletes need proper diets, right? Oh, and speaking of throwing…” he continued, not allowing her a second to interject, “with that cut in your throat, I’d avoid purging for a while if I was you – wouldn’t want it to get infected.” With that, he made to limp to the door, grabbing his cane and taking the potato chips with him.

“Hey! Those chips are mine!” 

“Weren’t you listening? You spilled your food, so I’m disposing of it for you!” 

“No you’re not, you’re gonna eat them – and you spilled them, not me!”

“Geez, kid, there are kids starving in Third World countries, and you want me to waste food? You really are spoilt.” Kids today... “You’re not a Carpenters fan, are you?”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

House didn’t feel like dignifying that with an answer, so he asked, “You can let yourself out, right? Only the circus has come to town, and I’m a little late.”

With that, he left the Examination Room, and the girl was left there, stunned absolutely speechless. In the end, she never did see Dr House again, largely because her parents had her switched to a new doctor the very next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N. … Because Procrastination is an art that must be appreciated in all its glory, that's why. Meanwhile, all the horrible jokes are intentional towards the expression of House’s character. If you understand any of the more obscure ones, you get a gold star. 
> 
> Thanks,  
> Ruin Takada XXX

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This 'new' story has been around for two or three years now. This is the definitive version. No more changes, no more rewrites. All the chapter titles are songs from metal band Avenged Sevenfold, chosen by me. I don't rate this song very much. Tell me what you think? Enjoy.
> 
> Thanks,  
> Ruin Takada XXX


End file.
